Zanoni, by Edward Bulwer-Lytton

Chapter 10

(The Eternal gives eternal things, the Mortal gathers mortal things: God, that which is divine, and the perishable
that which is perishable.)

EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF ZANONI TO MEJNOUR.

Letter 1.

Thou hast not informed me of the progress of thy pupil; and I fear that so differently does circumstance shape the
minds of the generations to which we are descended, from the intense and earnest children of the earlier world, that
even thy most careful and elaborate guidance would fail, with loftier and purer natures than that of the neophyte thou
hast admitted within thy gates. Even that third state of being, which the Indian sage (The Brahmins, speaking of Brahm,
say, “To the Omniscient the three modes of being — sleep, waking, and trance — are not;” distinctly recognising trance
as a third and coequal condition of being.) rightly recognises as being between the sleep and the waking, and describes
imperfectly by the name of TRANCE, is unknown to the children of the Northern world; and few but would recoil to
indulge it, regarding its peopled calm as maya and delusion of the mind. Instead of ripening and culturing that airy
soil, from which Nature, duly known, can evoke fruits so rich and flowers so fair, they strive but to exclude it from
their gaze; they esteem that struggle of the intellect from men’s narrow world to the spirit’s infinite home, as a
disease which the leech must extirpate with pharmacy and drugs, and know not even that it is from this condition of
their being, in its most imperfect and infant form, that poetry, music, art — all that belong to an Idea of Beauty to
which neither SLEEPING nor WAKING can furnish archetype and actual semblance — take their immortal birth. When we, O
Mejnour in the far time, were ourselves the neophytes and aspirants, we were of a class to which the actual world was
shut and barred. Our forefathers had no object in life but knowledge. From the cradle we were predestined and reared to
wisdom as to a priesthood. We commenced research where modern Conjecture closes its faithless wings. And with us, those
were common elements of science which the sages of today disdain as wild chimeras, or despair of as unfathomable
mysteries. Even the fundamental principles, the large yet simple theories of electricity and magnetism, rest obscure
and dim in the disputes of their blinded schools; yet, even in our youth, how few ever attained to the first circle of
the brotherhood, and, after wearily enjoying the sublime privileges they sought, they voluntarily abandoned the light
of the sun, and sunk, without effort, to the grave, like pilgrims in a trackless desert, overawed by the stillness of
their solitude, and appalled by the absence of a goal. Thou, in whom nothing seems to live BUT THE DESIRE TO KNOW;
thou, who, indifferent whether it leads to weal or to woe, lendest thyself to all who would tread the path of
mysterious science, a human book, insensate to the precepts it enounces — thou hast ever sought, and often made
additions to our number. But to these have only been vouchsafed partial secrets; vanity and passion unfitted them for
the rest; and now, without other interest than that of an experiment in science, without love, and without pity, thou
exposest this new soul to the hazards of the tremendous ordeal! Thou thinkest that a zeal so inquisitive, a courage so
absolute and dauntless, may suffice to conquer, where austerer intellect and purer virtue have so often failed. Thou
thinkest, too, that the germ of art that lies in the painter’s mind, as it comprehends in itself the entire embryo of
power and beauty, may be expanded into the stately flower of the Golden Science. It is a new experiment to thee. Be
gentle with thy neophyte, and if his nature disappoint thee in the first stages of the process, dismiss him back to the
Real while it is yet time to enjoy the brief and outward life which dwells in the senses, and closes with the tomb. And
as I thus admonish thee, O Mejnour, wilt thou smile at my inconsistent hopes? I, who have so invariably refused to
initiate others into our mysteries — I begin at last to comprehend why the great law, which binds man to his kind, even
when seeking most to set himself aloof from their condition, has made thy cold and bloodless science the link between
thyself and thy race; why, THOU has sought converts and pupils; why, in seeing life after life voluntarily dropping
from our starry order, thou still aspirest to renew the vanished, and repair the lost; why, amidst thy calculations,
restless and unceasing as the wheels of Nature herself, thou recoilest from the THOUGHT TO BE ALONE! So with myself; at
last I, too, seek a convert, an equal — I, too, shudder to be alone! What thou hast warned me of has come to pass. Love
reduces all things to itself. Either must I be drawn down to the nature of the beloved, or hers must be lifted to my
own. As whatever belongs to true Art has always necessarily had attraction for US, whose very being is in the ideal
whence Art descends, so in this fair creature I have learned, at last, the secret that bound me to her at the first
glance. The daughter of music — music, passing into her being, became poetry. It was not the stage that attracted her,
with its hollow falsehoods; it was the land in her own fancy which the stage seemed to centre and represent. There the
poetry found a voice — there it struggled into imperfect shape; and then (that land insufficient for it) it fell back
upon itself. It coloured her thoughts, it suffused her soul; it asked not words, it created not things; it gave birth
but to emotions, and lavished itself on dreams. At last came love; and there, as a river into the sea, it poured its
restless waves, to become mute and deep and still — the everlasting mirror of the heavens.

And is it not through this poetry which lies within her that she may be led into the large poetry of the universe!
Often I listen to her careless talk, and find oracles in its unconscious beauty, as we find strange virtues in some
lonely flower. I see her mind ripening under my eyes; and in its fair fertility what ever-teeming novelties of thought!
O Mejnour! how many of our tribe have unravelled the laws of the universe — have solved the riddles of the exterior
nature, and deduced the light from darkness! And is not the POET, who studies nothing but the human heart, a greater
philosopher than all? Knowledge and atheism are incompatible. To know Nature is to know that there must be a God. But
does it require this to examine the method and architecture of creation? Methinks, when I look upon a pure mind,
however ignorant and childlike, that I see the August and Immaterial One more clearly than in all the orbs of matter
which career at His bidding through space.

Rightly is it the fundamental decree of our order, that we must impart our secrets only to the pure. The most
terrible part of the ordeal is in the temptations that our power affords to the criminal. If it were possible that a
malevolent being could attain to our faculties, what disorder it might introduce into the globe! Happy that it is NOT
possible; the malevolence would disarm the power. It is in the purity of Viola that I rely, as thou more vainly hast
relied on the courage or the genius of thy pupils. Bear me witness, Mejnour! Never since the distant day in which I
pierced the Arcana of our knowledge, have I ever sought to make its mysteries subservient to unworthy objects; though,
alas! the extension of our existence robs us of a country and a home; though the law that places all science, as all
art, in the abstraction from the noisy passions and turbulent ambition of actual life, forbids us to influence the
destinies of nations, for which Heaven selects ruder and blinder agencies; yet, wherever have been my wanderings, I
have sought to soften distress, and to convert from sin. My power has been hostile only to the guilty; and yet with all
our lore, how in each step we are reduced to be but the permitted instruments of the Power that vouchsafes our own, but
only to direct it. How all our wisdom shrinks into nought, compared with that which gives the meanest herb its virtues,
and peoples the smallest globule with its appropriate world. And while we are allowed at times to influence the
happiness of others, how mysteriously the shadows thicken round our own future doom! We cannot be prophets to
ourselves! With what trembling hope I nurse the thought that I may preserve to my solitude the light of a living
smile!

. . . .

Extracts from Letter II.

Deeming myself not pure enough to initiate so pure a heart, I invoke to her trance those fairest and most tender
inhabitants of space that have furnished to poetry, which is the instinctive guess into creation, the ideas of the
Glendoveer and Sylph. And these were less pure than her own thoughts, and less tender than her own love! They could not
raise her above her human heart, for THAT has a heaven of its own.

. . . .

I have just looked on her in sleep — I have heard her breathe my name. Alas! that which is so sweet to others has
its bitterness to me; for I think how soon the time may come when that sleep will be without a dream — when the heart
that dictates the name will be cold, and the lips that utter it be dumb. What a twofold shape there is in love! If we
examine it coarsely — if we look but on its fleshy ties, its enjoyments of a moment, its turbulent fever and its dull
reaction — how strange it seems that this passion should be the supreme mover of the world; that it is this which has
dictated the greatest sacrifices, and influenced all societies and all times; that to this the loftiest and loveliest
genius has ever consecrated its devotion; that, but for love, there were no civilisation, no music, no poetry, no
beauty, no life beyond the brute’s.

But examine it in its heavenlier shape — in its utter abnegation of self; in its intimate connection with all that
is most delicate and subtle in the spirit — its power above all that is sordid in existence; its mastery over the idols
of the baser worship; its ability to create a palace of the cottage, an oasis in the desert, a summer in the Iceland —
where it breathes, and fertilises, and glows; and the wonder rather becomes how so few regard it in its holiest nature.
What the sensual call its enjoyments, are the least of its joys. True love is less a passion than a symbol. Mejnour,
shall the time come when I can speak to thee of Viola as a thing that was?

. . . .

Extract from Letter III.

Knowest thou that of late I have sometimes asked myself, “Is there no guilt in the knowledge that has so divided us
from our race?” It is true that the higher we ascend the more hateful seem to us the vices of the short-lived creepers
of the earth — the more the sense of the goodness of the All-good penetrates and suffuses us, and the more immediately
does our happiness seem to emanate from him. But, on the other hand, how many virtues must lie dead in those who live
in the world of death, and refuse to die! Is not this sublime egotism, this state of abstraction and reverie — this
self-wrapped and self-dependent majesty of existence, a resignation of that nobility which incorporates our own
welfare, our joys, our hopes, our fears with others? To live on in no dread of foes, undegraded by infirmity, secure
through the cares, and free from the disease of flesh, is a spectacle that captivates our pride. And yet dost thou not
more admire him who dies for another? Since I have loved her, Mejnour, it seems almost cowardice to elude the grave
which devours the hearts that wrap us in their folds. I feel it — the earth grows upon my spirit. Thou wert right;
eternal age, serene and passionless, is a happier boon than eternal youth, with its yearnings and desires. Until we can
be all spirit, the tranquillity of solitude must be indifference.

. . . .

Extracts from Letter IV.

I have received thy communication. What! is it so? Has thy pupil disappointed thee? Alas, poor pupil! But —

. . . .

(Here follow comments on those passages in Glyndon’s life already known to the reader, or about to be made so, with
earnest adjurations to Mejnour to watch yet over the fate of his scholar.)

. . . .

But I cherish the same desire, with a warmer heart. My pupil! how the terrors that shall encompass thine ordeal warn
me from the task! Once more I will seek the Son of Light.

. . . .

Yes; Adon–Ai, long deaf to my call, at last has descended to my vision, and left behind him the glory of his
presence in the shape of Hope. Oh, not impossible, Viola — not impossible, that we yet may be united, soul with
soul!

Extract from Letter V. —(Many months after the last.)

Mejnour, awake from thine apathy — rejoice! A new soul will be born to the world — a new soul that shall call me
father. Ah, if they for whom exist all the occupations and resources of human life — if they can thrill with exquisite
emotion at the thought of hailing again their own childhood in the faces of their children; if in that birth they are
born once more into the holy Innocence which is the first state of existence; if they can feel that on man devolves
almost an angel’s duty, when he has a life to guide from the cradle, and a soul to nurture for the heaven — what to me
must be the rapture to welcome an inheritor of all the gifts which double themselves in being shared! How sweet the
power to watch, and to guard — to instil the knowledge, to avert the evil, and to guide back the river of life in a
richer and broader and deeper stream to the paradise from which it flows! And beside that river our souls shall meet,
sweet mother. Our child shall supply the sympathy that fails as yet; and what shape shall haunt thee, what terror shall
dismay, when thy initiation is beside the cradle of thy child!